"-^AO^ ^ 



'^o\> 















<«5o< 







Cft ^'^ --- <» A> <U _^ < 










v^^ 










**o^ Ji^ 












A WOMAN OF THIRTY 











NEW BORZOI POETRY 

BODY AND RAIMENT 
PROFILES FROM CHINA 
By Eunice Tietjens 

170 CHINESE POEMS 
MORE TRANSLATIONS FROM 
THE CHINESE 

By Arthur Waley 

POEMS: FIRST SERIES 
By J. C. Squire 

THE BELOVED STRANGER 
By Witter Bynner 











A WOMAN OF THIRTT 

BY 

MARJORIE ALLEN SEIFFERT 

ii 

AND 

POEMS OF ELIJAH HAY 




NEW rORK 

ALFRED ' A • KNOPF 

1919 



COPYEIGHT, 1919, BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. 






ULO 



/ !9!S 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 



OCI.A561001 



TO 

O. H. S. 



CONTENTS 



I. The Old Woman 

A Morality Play, 3 

II. Love Poems in Summer 

Singalese Love Songs I-V, 11 

The Silent Pool, 15 

Nocturne, 16 

Theme Arranged for Organ I-III, 17 

The Moonlight Sonata, 19 

Possession, 20 

Evening: the Taj Mahal, 21 

The Gift, 23 

The Bridge, 24 

A Temple I-VII, 25 

Candles, 30 

Winter Night, 31 

Last Days I-V, 32 

Sorrow, 35 

Prison, 36 

The Dream House, 37 

III. Studies and Designs 

Design for a Japanese Vase, 41 

The Bow Moon (A Print by Hiroshige), 42 

An Italian Chest, 44 

The Pedlar, 46 

Portrait of a Lady in Bed I-V, 48 

Portrait of a Gentleman, 53 

From the Madison Street Police Station, 54 

La Felice, 55 

The Journey, 57 

The Last Illusion, 58 

The Desert, 59 

The Picnic, 61 



IV. Interlude 

Mountain Trails I-VII, 67 

October Morning, 70 

October Afternoon, 71 

Maternity, 72 

The Father Speaks, 73 

To Allen, 74 

To Helen, 75 

The Immortal, 76 

To an Absent Child I-IV, 78 

Summer Night, 80 

Maura I-VI, 8i 

November Dusk, 85 

Winter Valley I-IV, 86 

V. Love Poems in Autumn 

Ballad, 91 

The Pathway of Black Leaves I-IV, 92 

Elegy, 95 

Sequence I-X, 96 

Disillusion, 103 

November Afternoon, 104 

Yareth at Solomon's Tomb, 105 

Argolis, 106 

St. Faith's Eve, 107 



Poems of Elijah Hay 

The Golden Stag, 11 1 

To Anne Knish, 112 

Lolita, 114 

Spectrum of Mrs. Q., 115 

Epitaph, 116 

A Sixpence, 117 

Three Spectra, 118 

Two Commentaries, 119 

A Womanly Woman, 120 

Lolita Now Is Old, 121 

The Shining Bird, 123 

The King Sends Three Cats to Guinevere, 124 

Ode in the New Mode, 126 

Night, 127 



I. The Old Woman 

(A Morality Play) 



The Old Woman 

(A Morality Play) 

Characters : 

The Woman 
The House 
The Doctor 
The Deacon 
The Landlady 

Doctor: There is an old woman 

Who ought to die — 

Deacon : And nobody knows 

But what she's dead — 

Doctor: The air will be cleaner 

When she's gone — 

Deacon: But we dare not bury her 

Till she's dead — 



Landlady : Come, young doctor 

From the first floor front, 
Come, dusty deacon, 



From the fourth floor back, 

You take her heels 

And I'll take her head — 

Doctor and We'll carry her 
Deacon: And bury her 

If she's dead! 

House: • They roll her up 

In her old, red quilt. 
They carry her down 
At a horizontal tilt, 
She doesn't say " Yes " 
And she doesn't say " No," 
She doesn't say, " Gentlemen, 
Wbere do we go? " 

Doctor: Out in the lot 

Where ash-cans die, 
There, old woman, 
There shall you lie! 



Deacon: Let's hurry away 

And never look behind 
To see if her eyes 
Are dead and blind. 
To see if the quilt 
Lies over her face — 
Perhaps she'll groan 
Or move in her place ! 



House : The room Is empty 

Where the old woman lay, 
And I no longer 
Smell like a tomb — 

Landlady: Doctor, deacon. 
Can you say 
Who'll pay rent 
For the old woman's room? 



House : The room is empty 

Down the hall. 
There are mice in the closet, 
Ghosts in the wall — 
A pretty Httle lady 
Comes to see — 

Woman: Oh, what a dark room. 

Not for me ! 

Landlady: The room is large 
And the rent is low. 
There's a deacon above 
And a doctor below — 



Deacon: When the little mice squeak 

I shall pray — 

Doctor: I'll psycho-analyse 

The ghosts away — 



Landlady: The bed is large 

And the mattress deep, 
Wrapped in a feather-bed 
You shall sleep — 

Woman: But here's the door 

Without a key ! 
An unlocked room 
Won't do for me ! 



Doctor : 


Here's a bolt — 


Deacon: 


And here's a bar — 


Landlady : 


You'll sleep soundly 




Where you are ! 


Woman : 


Good night, gentlemen, 




It's growing late, 




Good night, landlady, 




Pray don't waitl 




I'm going to bed, 




I'll bolt the door 




And sleep more soundly 




Than ever before! 



Deacon : Good night, madam, 

I'll steal away — 

Doctor: Glad a pretty lady 

Has come to stay! 



House : She lights a candle — 

What do I see ! 
That cloak looks like 
A quilt to me! 
She climbs into bed 
Where long she's lain, 
She's come back home. 
She won't leave again. 
She's found once more 
Her rightful place. 
Same old lady 
With a pretty new face. 
Let the deacon pray 
And the doctor talk, 
The mice will squeak 
And the ghosts will walk. 
There's a crafty smile 
On the landlady's face. 
The old woman's gone, 
But she's filled her place ! 



Landlady: It's nothing to me 

If the old woman's dead. 
There's somebody sleeping 
In every bed I 



II. Love Poems in Summer 



Singalese Love Songs 



Your eyes are beautiful beggars, 

Careless singing minstrels, 

Who will not starve 

Nor sleep cold under the sky 

If they receive no largess 

Of mine. 

Once lived a woman 
Of great charity — 

At last 

Her own children 

Begged for bread. 



II 

I would make you love me 
That you might possess 
Desire — 

For to your heart 
Beauty is a burned-out torch, 
II 



And Faith, a blind pigeon, 
Friendship, a curious Persian myth, 
And Love, blank emptiness. 
Bearing no significance 
Nor any reality. 

Only Weariness is yours : 
I would make you love me 
That you might possess 
Desire. 



HI 

Is my love 

Of flesh or spirit? 

I only know to me 

Your eyes are wholly you. 

Our glances dart 

Like the flash of a bird 

Gone, before the colour of his wing 

Is seen. 

I have not bathed my soul 

In your eyes. 

My soul would drown. 



12 



IV 

I have starved to know your lips 

Yet my soul 

Does not die of want. 

For only dreams are real, 
And fulfilment is an illusion. 
There is but one fulfilment, 
Blind Nature's way — 

My arms reach toward illusion, 

And I would carry mist against my heart, 

Not the warm, heavy head 

Of a sleeping child. 

Starving, I hold my dream. 



What do you seek, 
Beloved? 

When you have had 

All of me 

There will remain for you 

One beautiful desire the less. 

You think you seek my love 
But you seek 
My denial. 



13 



Hunger, Want, 
Is the only pain 
I would not spare you 
Alas, that too 
Will die ! 



14 



The Silent Pool 

Your smile is a heron, flying 

Over waters cool, 

My thoughts of you are blue Iris ! 

Today is the silent pool 

Which shining heron and Iris blue 

Are mirrored on. 

Tomorrow 

Will still reflect the Iris — 
My thoughts of you; 
But the heron will be gone. 



15 



Nocturne 

It is enough 
To feel your beauty 
With the fingers 
Of my heart, 

Your beauty, like the starlight, 
Filling night so gently, that it dreams 
Unwakened. 

I should feel your beauty against my face 
Though I were blind. 



i6 



Theme Arranged for Organ 

I. Prelude 

What would you have of me, my friend, in truth, 
A breath of understanding, or a glance 
Into your soul's dark places? Can a word 
Aid in your brave attempt to smother youth? 
Of what avail that trifling circumstance. 
In such a tumult could my voice be heard? 

Before your bitter need my lips are dumb 
So little can I give you. Should I come 
To feed a starving Titan with a crumb? 

II. Interlude 

Alas, I am too foolish or too wise, 

Too soon am blinded or I see too far! 

How can I follow with expectant feet. 

What is the beacon light that holds your eyes, 

Can this blind alley lead to any star 

And through this dark confusion, what retreat? 

For heaven is awed when comets crash to earth. 
But we, who grope and question our soul's worth. 
Stumbling, awaken only bitter mirth. 

17 



III. POSTLUDE 

A breath, a glance, a word, — no more, my friend, 
This is the sum of what I have to give 
Leaving the tale for ever incomplete. 
No perfect moment, and no tragic end. 
Within your heart those images shall live 
And die like footsteps down an empty street. 

Yet all the while a stifled instinct saith: 

" Spend your soul's vigour to the utmost breath 

And let the hounds come baying at the death! " 



i8 



The Moonlight Sonata 

My soul storm-beaten as an ancient pier 
Stands forth into the sea ; wave on slow wave 
Of shining music, luminous and grave, 
Lifting against me, pouring through me, here 
Find wafts of unforgotten chords, which rise 
And droop like clinging sea-weed. You, so white, 
So still, so helpless on this fathomless night 
Float like a corpse with living, tortured eyes. 
Deep waves wash you against me; you impart 
No comfort to my spirit, give no sign 
Your Inarticulate lips can taste the brine 
Drowning the secret timbers of my heart. 



19 



Possession 

I hold you fast, your hurrying breath, 
Your wandering feet, your restless heart, 
Are mine alone, for only death 
You vowed today, can make us part. 

Your eager lips, athirst to drain 
Life's goblet of its golden wine 
Shall drink tonight or thirst in vain — 
I hold you fast for you are mine. 

And when I search your soul until 
I see too deeply and divine 
That you can never love me — Still 
I hold you fast for you are mine! 



20 



Evening: the Taj Mahal 

(A Lover Speaks) 
Beloved! . . . 

India and you 

Breathe through my soul tonight, 

You in your gown, impossibly white — 

I marvel greatly that it fail 

To glow and pale 

With iridescent light — 

How can it hang in silent nun-like folds? 

Think of the flaming mystery it holds, 

You . . . You . . . 

We stand in that wide place 

Where love is frozen in marble, spire on spire, 

A snow-white nightingale with a heart of fire 

Soaring in space. 

We gaze, together, into the shining pool 

To catch the soul of beauty unaware 

Finding only the peaceful body there 

Of beauty drowned and still in waters cool. 

Burning so luminously in these pure white things 
Somehow akin, are palpitating fires, 

21 



Intangible, yet visible as spires 

Or wings. 

And close at hand, an unseen Moslem sings 

Blind, haunting chants, which speak 

Of mystery, forevermore unguessed. 

O shining ones, I seek 

No farther, for my soul, content. 

Divines the secret of the Taj Mahal and you 

Beauty and desire, possessed 

In white tranquillity, in flaming peace, 

Find rest. 



22 



The Gift 

What is this wine you have poured for me? 

You have offered up 
Your face in its pure transparency 

Like a crystal cup 
Which trembling fingers slowly lift — 

It is faintly masked 
With a tremulous smile. You have brought me a gift, 

Your love, unasked. 

Could you trust my reckless hands so much? 

With no vow spoken, 
You gave me a goblet, which at a touch 

Were utterly broken 1 
Your smile replied: " Since the glass was filled 

It little mattered 
Whether the wine were drunk or spilled 

Or the goblet shattered." 



23 



The Bridge 

I walk the bridge of hours from dawn till night 
My heart beating so loud in joyous wonder 
To know your love, that I can scarcely breathe; 
But in the lonely darkness, with affright 
I faintly hear, like ominous, distant thunder 
The unseen ocean surging close beneath. 

Our bridge so frail, eternity so vast ! 
When we must sink into the deep at last 
Heart of my heart, will you still hold me fast? 



24 



A Temple 

I. DOORWAY 

Carven angels 

On the portals, 

Angels with crowns, and eagles 

And golden lions 

On the door. 

This is why 

The alien worshippers went their way, 

Why you alone discovered 

The gates were open. 

You touched the velvet curtains behind them, 
They parted to let you pass. 

II. WINDOW 

I make a window 

Of you, beloved, 

Through which the sun colours 

The silence. 

« 

Even your absences 
Are spaces I have filled 
With sapphire; 



25 



Your denials 

Are burning gold, 

I have painted your reluctance 

Emerald green: 

Your silences 

Are crimson 

On which your words make delicate 

Black tracery. 

As for me, 

My will is the grey lead 

Which I have bent to hold the coloured 

Panes of you. 



III. SPIRE 

My wish goes singing upward 
Holding a chime of bells 
In its heart : 

Pigeons know my silent bells, 
Winds touch them and wonder. 

That they might reach 
That high blue — 

Till star fingers touch them 
Ever so gently — 



26 



And drifting clouds 

Lay cool cheeks against them — 

My wish goes singing upward 
Reaching into silence. 



IV. PRIEDIEU 

Beauty passes 
But dust is eternal. 
Outside the temple 
Beauty dies in the wind. 

So when my temple is fallen 
And lies in dust, 

Where then will be the memory 
Of your beauty? 

I pray my dust 

That it may hold your image 

Tomorrow and for ever. 



V. FESTIVAL 

The beloved is returning, 
Let the bells ring! 

I too am a tower 
Hung with bronze bells, 



27 



I too am a bell 
Chiming to the winds, 

I too am the wind 
Ringing to the hills, 

I too am the hills 
Singing to the sky. 

I too am the sky! 

The beloved is returning. 

Let the bells ring ! 

VI. DUSK 

There is no soul too poor to build a temple 
Where it may go apart 
And worship darkness. 

For out of darkness 

Images shine . . . and fade . . . 

Since now there is no worship nor any music, 

Let incense be a curved smile 

On lips that remember, 

And candles, notes of laughter 

In empty dusk. 

Above, 

A coloured window slowly turns 
Black to the night. 
28 



VII. RUINS 

Temples have fallen 

Before today, 

Stones are ever loosening their hold 

One on another . . . 

You blocks of marble, sleeping in the sun, 
Can you remember chiming bells 
And incense? 

Now there is only silence, 

Even the winged stones of archways 

Sleep in peace. 



29 



Candles 

Silence is but the golden frame 

That holds your face, 
My thoughts, like unblown candle-flame 

In a holy place 
Surround you. From this secret shrine 

Somewhere apart 
Do you not feel my candles shine 

Upon your heart ? 



30 



Winter Night 

The I that does not love you 
I have kept hidden away 
In the dark. 

(I never dreamed 
There was a You 
That does not love me I ) 

Tonight they met. 

I hear their words 
Falling like icicles 
Upon me . . . 
I am frozen in terror . . . i 
Have they killed the You 
That Loves me? 

Beloved, can you hear me 
Through the bitter sound 
Of icicles falling? 
Can you see me from behind 
Your frozen eyes? 



31 



Last Days 



Shall I pretend 

These days are just like other days? 

One cannot spend 

Every day for seven weeks 

Saying good-bye. 

So when I must 

I speak of your departure casually 

As though It were a hundred years away; 

As Youth is wont to say: 

" Sometime we all must die ! " 



II 

We talk of all the happy things we have done, 

We pass them in review, 

"Do you remember? " is often on our lips. 

One by one 

We touch our memories and put them all away- 
How shall I dare to look at them 
When you are gone ! 
32 



Ill 

There is no beginning to my love 

Nor any end — 

It is about your head 

Like the deep air, 

More than your breath can spend. 

It is about your heart 

Like arms of faith — 

Where you go, it is there. 



IV 

There are no last things to say. 

What promise can I make? 

You know my love so well. 

All that I have is yours to take. 

(How will it be, with part of me away, 

Must not my soul be changed?) 

Shall I stay young for memory's sake? 
Shall I be old and grave and grey? 
If I might choose, how could I tell! 



The You I know 
I shall not see again, 
A stranger will return. 



33 



How shall I win the love 
Which he has kept apart 
With a blurred image which once was I? 

I shall not know his heart, 
How can I learn? 



34 



Sorrow 

Sorrow stands In a wide place, 

Blind — blind — 

Beauty and joy are petals blown 

Across her granite face, 

They cannot find 

Sight or sentience in stone. 

Yesterday's beauty and joy lie deep 
In sorrow's heart, asleep. 



35 



Prison 

I close the book — the story has grown dim, 
The plot confused; the hero fades 
Behind unmeaning words, and over him 
The covers close like window shades 
On empty windows. The watchful room 
Is weary. Dully the green lamp stares 
Into the shadows. The coals are dumb. 
The clock ticks heavily. The chairs 
Wait sullenly for guests who never come. 

Suppose I leave this house, suppose my feet 
Plodding into the night 
Carry me down the empty street 
Made hideous with arcs of purple light . , . 
Inevitably I must return to bed. 
The house is waiting, chairs, and books, and clocks. 
I am their prisoner. I have no more chance 
Of escape, when all is said. 
Than a dying beetle in a box — 
And life, and love, — and death — have gone to 
France. 



36 



The Dream House 

I steal across the sodden floor 

And dead leaves blow about, 

Where once we planned an iron door 
To shut the whole world out ; 

I find the hearth, its fires unlit, 
Its ashes cold — Tonight 

Only the stars give warmth to it. 
Only the moon gives light. 

And yonder on our spacious bed 
Fashioned for love and sleep 

The Autumn goldenrod lies dead. 
The maple-leaves lie deep. 



37 



III. Studies and Designs 



A Japanese Vase 

(A Design to be Wrought in Metals) 

Five harsh, black birds in shining bronze come crying 

Into a silver sky, 

Piercing and jubilant is the shape of their flying. 

Their beaks are pointed with dehght, 

Curved sharply with desire, 

The passionate direction of their flight, 

Clear and high. 

Stretches their bodies taut like humming wire. 

The cold wind blows into angry patterns the jet-bright 

Feathers of their wings, 

Their claws curl loosely, safely, about nothingness, 

They clasp no things. 

Direction and desire they possess 

By which in sharp, unswerving flight they hold 

Across an iron sea to the golden beach 

Whereon lies carrion, their feast. A shore of gold 

That birds wrought on a vase can never reach. 



41 



The Bow Moon 

(A print by Hiroshige) 

From the dawn, Take San, 

Ungathered star, 

Follow me back through night 

Till I recapture 

Evening. 

(The bending hours of darkness 

Sway apart like lilies 

Before the backward-blowing wind.) 

At last, 

Bearing in her mysterious bosom 

Unravished beauty, 

Dark Yesterday rises to view against her silent sky 

Irrevocable . . . secret . . . 

Confronting the fantastic dream 

Of an impossible Tomorrow. 

And that frail bridge, 

Delicate, immutable. 

Which rises higher than the moon. 

More everlasting than the fading sky, 

42 



Joining What-was-not with What-might-have-been, 
That bridge were named " Today " 
If I had loved you, Take San, 
If you had loved me. 



43 



An Italian Chest 

(Lorenzo Designs a Bas-Relief) 

Lust Is the oldest lion of them all 

And he shall have first place, 

With a malignant growl, satirical. 

To curve In foliations prodigal 

Round and around his face. 

Extending till the echoes interlace 

With Pride and Prudence, two cranes, gaunt and tall. 

Four lesser lions crouch and malign the cranes, 

Cursing and gossiping they shake their manes 

While from their long tongues leak 

Drops of thin venom as they speak. 

The cranes, unmoved, peck grapes and grains 

From a huge cornucopia, which rains 

A plenteous meal from Its antique 

Interior (a note quite curiously Greek). 

And nine long serpents twist 

And twine, twist and twine, 

A riotously beautiful design 

Whose elements consist 

Of eloquent spirals, fair and fine, 

44 



Embracing cranes and lions, who exist 
Seemingly free, yet tangled in that living vine. 

And in this chest shall be 

Two cubic meters of space 

Enough to hold all memory 

Of you and me — 

And this shall be the place 

Where silence shall embrace 

Our bodies, and obliterate the trace 

Our souls made on the purity 

Of night . . . 

Now lock the chest, for we 

Are dead, and lose the key! 



45 



46 



The Pedlar 

Hark, people, to the cry 

Of this curious young magician-pedlar 

Seeking a golden bowl ! 

He wanders through the city 
Offering useful tin-ware 
For all the ancient metal 
You have left to rust 
In the dim, dusty attic 
Or mouldy cellar 
Of your soul. 

He refuses nothing — 

Rusty nails 

Which may have played their part 

In a crucifixion — 

For ten of these he will give 

A new tin spoon. 

The andirons 

Once guarding hearth-fires of content, 

Now dusty and forgotten 

In an obscure corner, 

He will give for these 



A new tin tea-kettle 
With a wooden handle. 

And for this antique bowl 
Fashioned to hold 
Roses or wine? 

The eyes of the pedlar glisten ! 

O woman, if acid reveal 

Gold beneath the tarnished surface 

He will gladly give you 

His hands, his eyes, his soul, 

His young, white body — 

If not, 

A mocking laugh 
And a bright tin sieve 
To hold your wine 
And roses. 



47 



Portrait of a Lady in Bed 

I. THE COVERLET 

My cowardice 
Covers me safely 
From everything . . . 

From cold, which makes me yield 
And quietly die 
Beneath the snow; 

From heat, which makes me faint 
Until cool nothingness receives me; 

From hurt, (Seize me, O Lion, 
And I shall die of fright 
Before I feel your teeth!) 

From love. 

Yes, most of all from love. 

How can love touch mc? 
Is it not heat. 
Or cold, 
Or a lion? 

48 



My cowardice covers me 

Safely 

From everything! 



II. THE PILLOW 

To know you think of me 
Sustains my spirit 
Through the long night. 

(My thought of you 

Is wine, banishing sleep!) 

Your thoughts of me are feathers, 

Light nothings, 

Drifting, dancing. 

Floating, 

Blown by a breath of fancy 

Away from your sight. 

They would choke me. 

They would blind me 

With the Nothing I am to you 

If I dared see them; 

But I bind them into a pillow, 

And to know that you think of me 

Sustains my spirit 

Through the night. 



49 



III. SOUVENIR 

Harlequin, seeing me gay 

You loved me, 

For fools need mirth, 

O solemn Harlequin 1 

Tall tragedians make me laugh 

Joyously, riotously. 

Tall, dark villains, and heroes with blonde hair 

Make me laugh uproariously . . . 

(I could elope with a tragedian!) 

But you with your clowning, Harlequin, 
Brought bony truth too near — 

Harlequin, I might have loved you 
But I could not make you gay! 



IV. THE CURTAIN 

I do not fear 

You, or me, or death, 

There now is nothing left to fear 

But this. 

This curtain of blackness. 

Once I feared you. 

And all you thought and felt 

50 



And all you said and did : 

I feared myself, 

And all you made me think and feel 

And say and do — 

Now I no longer fear 

Thinking, feeling, saying, doing. 

Nor blankness, silence, apathy, torpor 

I do not fear 

You, or me, or death — 

I only fear 

This curtain of blackness 

Which is your absence. 



V. THE DREAM 

Harlequin comes to me, smiling. 
Through the white-shining birch trees 
Of the twilight wood. 

He has forgiven 
My cowardice and hesitations. 
Soon I shall sink into his arms 
With all the imagined fervour 
Of a thousand dreams. 

Why does he come so slowly? 
There is no longer anything 
To mar our meeting . . . 
51 



This must be real 
For Harlequin is still clowning, 
He waves his arms grotesquely 
To make me smile .... 

Quick, into his arms 
With unspent fervour . . . 
Why are the trees all sighing? 
Look, whispering birches, if you will, 
I and my love embrace ! 

They do not look, 

They do not seem to care . . . 

Embrace me, my beloved ! 
(Can these by passionate kisses? 
They feel so thin and cool 
Like mist.) 

The birches shiver 

As though the night-wind stirred them. 

Can we be dead? 



52 



Portrait of a Gentleman 

Tower of stone 

Rugged and lonely, 

My thoughts like Ivy 

Embrace my memory of you, 

Climbing riotously, wantonly, 

Till the harsh walls 

Are clothed in tender green. 

Tower of stone. 

Stark walls and a narrow door 

Which speak: 

" You who are not for me 

Are against me, — 

If you are mine, 

Enter! " 

But who would be prisoned 
In unknown darkness? 

Tower of stone 

Rugged and lonely, 

I dared not enter and I would not go 

Till clasping you 

My arms were bruised and torn. 



53 



From the Madison Street Police Station 

I, John Shepherd, vagrant, 
Petition the park commissioners 
For wider benches. 

My soul has long been reconciled 
To the prick of gunny-sack, 
(O well-remembered woollen fleeces!) 
And rustling vests of newspaper, 
And the chill of rubbers on unshod feet. 
But to the wasteful burning of dry leaves, 
God's shepherd's mattress. 
Never! 

Descendant of ancient ones 
Who tended flocks and watched the midnight sky, 
My forebears saw the Eastern star appear 
Over Judean hills. 

Where do your flocks graze, gentlemen? 
Are there no sheep or shepherds any more ? 
All day long I sought the flocks 
And came by night to a wide, grassy place. 
Where I could sit and watch the stars wheel by — > 
And in the morning some one brought me here. 
54 



La Felice 

La Felice, by the forest pond 

looks through leaves to the Western screen 

of Chinese gold that lies beyond 

black trees and boughs of golden-green. 

The little body of La Felice 

weary of everything on earth 

has passed from love to love, till peace 

and beauty alone have any worth. 

So still and deep the water lies, 

so fiery-cool, so yellow-clear; 

" Here beauty sleeps! " La Felice cries, 

" I will give myself to beauty here !" 

The mud is smooth and deep, the weeds 
beneath her feet are soft and cool, 
ripples widen and glistening beads 
of bubble rise on the forest pool. 

The water reaches to her knee, 
now to her thigh, now to her breast, 
till like a child all peacefully 
does La Felice He down to rest. 



She struggles like a fearful bride 
with ecstasy — then La Felice 
turns quietly upon her side 
and over the sunset pool is peace. 



56 



The Journey 

Tiiree women walked through the snow 

Beneath an empty sky, 
And one was bhnd, and one was old, 

And one was I. 

Bravely the Blind One led, 

I questioned from behind 
" Tell me, where do we go? " She said 

" Have courage ... I am blind! " 

We came at last to a cliff, 

The Blind One plunged, and was gone 
I looked behind me, stark and stiff 

The Old One stood in the dawn. 

The deep crevasse was black 

Beneath the dawning day, 
I could not turn and travel back. 

The Old One barred the way. 

I could not turn aside, 

(To lead, one dare not see) 

I think that day I must have died 
Such silence is in me. 

57 



The Last Illusion 

Along the twilight road I met three women, 
And they were neither old nor very young; 
In her hands each bore what she most cherished, 
For they were neither rich, nor very poor. 

In the hands of the first woman 
I saw white ashes in an urn, 
In the hands of the next woman 
I saw a tarnished mirror gleam. 
In the hands of the last woman 
I saw a heavy, jagged stone — 

Along the twilight road I met three women. 
And they were neither fools nor very wise. 
For each was troubled lest another covet 
Her precious burden — so they walked alone. 



The Desert 

Through dusty years, and drearily, 

Two lovers rode across a desert hill 

While patient love followed them wearily 

Through the long, sultry day ... 

But when night came, the desert had its way, 

Turning, they found love cold and still. 

It lay so pitiful a thing, 

Threadbare, and soiled, and worn — 

" Why have we kept such starveling love? " she cried, 

*' Was it worth treasuring? " 

And he replied: 

" Bury it then! I shall not mourn! " 

The wind came from the West, 

It seemed to blow 

Across a million graves to the sordid bier 

Where lay their love. She said: "We will bury it 

here!" 
They laid it low. 
They rode on, dispossessed. 

And all around 

Rose silent hills against the darkening sky, 

59 



Wave upon motionless wave. 

The night wind made a mournful sound. 

The woman turned: " It is lonely here ! 

I am afraid! " she said. 

He made reply: 

" What is there left to lose or save? 

What is there left to fear? 

Our hearts are empty. Have we not buried our 

dead?" 
She said, " I fear the empty dark, be kind! " 
He said, " I am still here, be comforted! " 

Then from its shallow grave 

Their love rose up and followed close behind. 



60 



The Picnic 

Here they come, in pairs, carrying baskets. 

Pale clerks with brilliant neckties, and cheap serge 

suits, 
Steering girls by the arm, clerks, too. 
Pretty and slim and smart. 
Even to yellow kid boots, laced up behind. 

They take the electric cars far into the country. 

They descend, gaily chattering, at the Amusement 

Park. 
Under the trees they eat the lunch they have carried — 
Salad, sausages, sandwiches, candy, warm beer. 
They ride in the roller-coaster, two in a seat, 
(Glorious danger! Warm, delicious proximity!) 
The unaccustomed beer floods their veins like heady 

wine. 
And smothered youth awakens with shrill screams of 

joy. 

The sun sets, and evening is drowned in electric lights; 
Arm-in-arm, they wander under the trees 
Everywhere meeting others, wandering arm-in-arm 
In the same wistful wonder, seeking they know not 

what. 
6i 



Two leave the park and the crowds — The stars shine 

out, 
A river runs at their feet, behind them, a leafy copse, 
Away on the other shore, the fields of grain 
Lie sleeping peacefully in the starlight. 
Tonight the world is tlieirs, a legacy 
From those who lived familiar friends with river, field 

and forest — 
Their forebears. 

Through the night, the same earth-magic moves them 
Which swayed those ancient ones, long-dead — 
And these, too, lean and drink, 
Drink deeply from the river, the flowing river of life. 

Slowly they return to the crowds and the brilliant lights, 
Dazzled, they look aside, silently climb on the cars. 
They cling to the swaying straps, weary, inert, con- 
fused. 
The lurching car makes halt — they are thrown in each 

others' arms — 
Alien and unmoved, they sway apart again — 
The car moves through the fields and suburbs back to 
the town. 

They leave the car in pairs, the picnic baskets 

Rattling dismally, plate and spoon and jar. 

The boy takes his girl to her lodgings in awkward 

silence. 
62 



They look askance — " Good-night I " — the front 

door closes, 
Indeed their eyes have not met, since by the river 
Those wondrous moments 
Linked them to earth and night, not to each other. 



63 



IV. Interlude 



Mountain Trails 

(glacier park, SEPT. '17) 
I 

Night stands in the valley 

Her head 

Is bound with stars, 

While Dawn, a grey-eyed nun 

Steals through the silent trees. 

Behind the mountains 

Morning shouts and sings 

And dances upward. 

II 

The peaks even today show finger prints 
Where God last touched the earth 
Before he set it joyously in space 
Finding it good. 

Ill 

You, slender shining — 
You, downward leaping — 
Born from silent snow 



To drown at last in tlie blue silent 
Mountain lake — 
You are not snow or water, 
You are only a silver spirit 
Singing ! 



IV 

Sharp crags of granite, 
Pointing, threatening, 
Thrust fiercely up at me; 
And near the edge, their menace 
Would whirl me down. 



V 

Climbing desperately toward the heights 
I glance in terror behind me 
To be deafened — to be shattered — 
By a thunderbolt of beauty. 



VI 

The mountains hold communion; 
They are priests, silent and austere. 
They have come together 
In a secret place 
With unbowed heads. 



68 



VII 

This hidden lake 
Is a sapphire cup — 
An offering clearer than wine, 
Colder than tears. 

The mountains hold it toward the sky- 
In silence. 



69 



October Morning 

October is brown 
In field and row — 

Yet goldenrod 
And goldenglow, 
Purple asters 
And ruddy oaks, 
Sumach spreading 
Crimson cloaks, 
Apples red 
And pumpkins gold 

Perhaps it's gayer 
To be oldl 



70 



October Afternoon 

The air is warm and winey-sweet, 
Over my head the oak-leaves shine 
Like rich Madeira, glossy brown, 
Or garnet red, like old Port wine. 
Wild grapes are ripening on the hill, 
Dead leaves curl thickly at my feet, 
Yet not one falls, it is so still. 
Crickets are singing in the sun. 
And aimlessly grasshoppers leap 
From discontent to discontent. 
Their days of leaping nearly done. 
There's a rich quietness of earth 
That holds no promise any more, 
And like a cup, Today is filled 
With the last wine the year shall pour. 



Maternity 

Sturdy Is earth, 
Dull and mighty, 
Unresentful — 
Of her own fertility 
Covering scars 
With healing green. 

You cannot anger earth, 
You cannot cause her pain 
Nor make her remember 
Your hungry, querulous love. 

At last your unwilling body 
She tranquilly receives 
And turns it to her uses. 



72 



The Father Speaks 

My little son, when you were born 

There died a being, sweet and wild, 
A lovely, careless, radiant child, 

A passionate woman — her I mourn. 

And in her place has come another. 

With troubled smile and brooding eyes, 
Insatiate of sacrifice 

And wholly, utterly your mother. 



73 



To Allen 

Beauty, the dream that I have dreamed so much 

Comes true in your quick smile, 

And on your cheek I see her touch 

And sometimes in your eyes a while 

Immortal beauty's fleeting image lies. 

Dear child, in whose veins beat 

The marching centuries of lovers' feet, 

All those brave, ardent ghosts in you arise — 

The souls who, loving beauty, gave you birth. 

With a chain of passion binding beauty to earth, 

A captured dream — these souls breathe with your 

breath 
Living again in beauty that knows no death. 



74 



To Helen 

Lie still in my arms, little four-years-old, 

Little bud that glows 
With more beauty and passion than it can hold, 

Little flaming rose, 

The spring's red blossoms, when winter lies deep 

On a wind-swept world 
Of tossing branches, lie safely asleep 

In brown buds curled. 

They wake — and the wind strips their petals away 

And spills them afar — 
Can I keep you from blooming, whatever I say. 

Wild bud that you are ! 



75 



The Immortal 

Child of a love denied, a dream unborn, 
Spirit more brave 

Than passion's unfulfilment, wiser than fate - 
Nor breast nor grave 
As cradle you have known, — 
I mourn 

That my soul knows its own 
Too late ! 

A soul's half-breath, 
Passion's unremembered dream. 
Perfume without a vase, 
Intangible you seem 
To life or death. 

And when the coloured mantle of the days 
Slips from my shoulders, and I lie 
Forgetful, dumb. 

Mingled with earth in passionless embrace. 
Will you, forgotten as a bird. 
Singing unheard 
In space. 

Will you not come 
When every other dream is gone, 
76 



Bringing to that silent place 

The shadow of a gesture flung 

By motionless hands, a floating echo hung 

From an unspoken word, 

And to the empty sky 

The sunset of a day which did not dawn 

And cannot die ! 



77 



To an Absent Child 

I 

At first in dreams 

I pressed you so close 

That you melted away on my breast, 

But now I wait, breathless and motionless, 

Till I feel your slender arms caress me 

Like swallows blown against me 

And quickly flown. 



II 

Small flower, 

My body is the earth from which you sprang, 

But we are more to each other than earth and flower, 

Closer, even, than earth and flower. 

For the sky in me is one with the sky in you . . . 

My love for you 

Is like sunlight shining in a quiet place. 
You shall feel my love like soft light 
Pouring about you. 

78 



Ill 

I will not kiss you, 

For my kisses are a chain without an end; 

Nor take you in my arms, 

My arms would smother you against my breast; 

I will not even touch your shining head — 

But lift your eyes up, flower-face. 

And I will fill them as full of love 

As they can hold! 



IV 

Ah no! If you were here 

I would sweep you into my arms and hold you close ! 

Though my love is of the spirit 

I must feel your little restless body 

Pressed for a moment against my heart. 



79 



Summer Night 

Rain, rain murmuring endless complaints 
In mournful whisperings that never cease, 
You bring my tired brain a certain peace 
Like Latin prayers to absent-minded saints. 

And whether silently to earth you fall, 
Or dashed and driven in tempestuous flight 
Like souls before God's wrath, the thirsty night. 
The soft and fecund earth shall drink you all. 



80 



Maura 

I 

Maura dreams unwakened — 

The warm winds touch the bands 

That hold her hair. 

The call of a silver horn floats by, 

A lover tosses flowers into her hands. 

Maura dreams unwakened — 
She joins the maidens in their dance, 
Her limbs follow slow rhythms, 
A lover leads her into the shade, 
She moves as in a trance. 



II 

What dim confusion 

Troubles her dream, 

What passionate caress 

Disturbs her spirit's rapt seclusion? 

Earth draws her close. How warm 
Is lover-earth! Like a sleeping bird 
She gives herself, then suddenly 
She is a leaf whirled in the storm. 

Somewhere in a quiet room, her soul unstirred. 

Dead ... or sleeping. 

Through the blind tumult hears afar 

8i 



The note of a horn, like a silver thread. 
She has given her soul to an echo's keeping. 



Ill 

Who knows the mountain where the hunter rides 

Winding his horn? 

Maura who heard it in her dream 

Wakens forlorn, 

Too late to catch the tenuous thread 

Of silver sound 

Which in the troubled, intricate fugue of earth 

Is drowned. 



IV 

Maura cannot follow over the hill. 

Her youth is landlocked as a hidden pool 

Where thirsty love drinks deep, 

A shining pool, where lingers 

The colour of an unseen golden sky, 

A pool where echoes fall asleep. 

But restless fingers 

Trouble the waters cool, 

Snatch at reflected beauty, and destroy 

The mirrored dream. The pool is never still, 

And broken echoes die. 



82 



V 

The silver call has gone, but there is left to her 

The gentleness of earth, 

The simple mysteries of sleep and death, 

Of love and birth. 

There are faces hungry for smiles, and starving fingers 

Reaching for dreams. 

And like a memory are the wind-swept chords of night, 

And the wide melody of evening sky 

Where gleams 

A colour like the echo of a horn. 

There is a far hill where winds die. 

And over the hill lies music yet unborn. 



VI 

Maura lies dead at last, 

The body she gave to child and lover 

Now feeds flower and tree. 

Earth's arms are wide to her. What breast 
Offers such gentle sleeping? 
Her limbs lie peacefully. 

From the dark West 
There comes a note like the echoing cry 
Of one who rides through the dusk alone 
After the hunt sweeps by. 

83 



It fades — the night wind Is forlorn — 

Music is still, 

But Maura has followed the silver horn 

Over the distant hill, 

Over the hill where all winds die. 



84 



November Dusk 

Where like ghosts of verdant days 

Whispering down, 
Leaves in the November dusk 

Drift and drown, 

Stand two lovers, motionless 

And apart 
In their sturdy nakedness 

Of the heart, 

Two dark figures, side by side 

Through the mist 
Standing as though time had died 

Since they kissed. 

Whose deep roots, alive and sound 

Blindly reach 
Mingling in the fertile ground 

Each with each — 

Pray that we, when gaunt and old 

Like bare trees 
Through our common earth may hold 

Close, like these ! 



85 



Winter Valley 



I 



Grey grasses drown 

In thin brown water 

Wound like a chain on the valley's 

Sunken breast. 

Fallen leaves on the stream 
Float motionless — rest — 
So secretly the pale 
Water winds around 
Toward hidden pools, 

Or sinking in the earth 
Is drowned. 



II 

Curved crimson stems, 
Thorny fingers of vine, 
Reach toward the wind. 

Sunlight, thin and cold, 
Touches them — they shine. 



86 



Nothing passes for thorns to hold — 

Red thorns, 

Catching at shadows of the wind. 



Ill 

Silence in the valley, 
Silence without wings — 

Like the caught breath 
Of an unspoken word 
When no words come. 

Withered reeds, and thin brown water 
Above the reeds 
Are dumb. 



IV 

For what are you waiting, winter valley. 
Withered valley, brown with reeds? 
You are hushed with waiting. 

You are old with secrets. 

You are tranquil with forgetting. 

You are harsh with thorns 
Of fruits long vanished. 



V. Love Poems in Autumn 



Ballad 

Follow, follow me into the South, 
And if you are brave and wise 

I'll buy you laughter for your mouth, 
Sorrow for your eyes. 

I'll buy you laughter, wild and sweet, 
And sorrow, grey and still. 

But you must follow with willing feet 
Over the farthest hill. 

Follow, follow me Into the South, 
You may return tomorrow 

Wearing my kisses on your mouth. 
In your eyes my sorrow. 



91 



The Pathway of Black Leaves 

I. THE TURNING 

The pathway opened before her eyes 
Between black leaves — 
She laughed, and shivered, and turned aside 
From the dusty road. 

Her feet moved on like heart-beats, 

She could not stop them ; 

Relentlessly each step fulfilled itself 

And the steps behind it — 

A hidden chain, drawing her onward 

Captive, 

And yet she said : " Now I walk free 
At last!" 

II. TOLL-GATE 
The sign read: 

*' Paupers may pass untaxed. 
The Rich shall pay a penny. 
The Poor 

Must give all they possess." 
92 



She emptied her pockets bravely and passed through . 

They gave her a golden coin in return for her silver, 

Bearing on one side the head of a king, 

And on the other a worn inscription 

Curved like a wreath 

And written in a tongue she did not know. 



III. THE INN 

There was the inn, beside the path, 

Standing like the words of an ancient prophet 

Forgotten long, now suddenly come true. 

" They who break bread here 
Shall not eat for hunger; 
They who lie here 
Shall not sleep." 

All night long the black leaves, one by one, 
Laughed, and shivered, and fell into darkness. 



IV. RETURN 

She has come home 

To the house she knew : 

But she has forgotten 

The square oaken smile of the door. 

The room is a stranger, 

The fire is sullen; 

93 



On her hair a black leaf shines 
And clings where it fell. 

Against her heart 

She has hidden away 

The bitter golden profile of a king. 



94 



Elegy 

I would be autumn earth, and hold 

Your beautiful body, slain, 

Where, lying still and cold. 

Only the winter rain 

Shall touch your limbs and face; 

Where the white frost shall wed 

Your body to black mould 

In the close, passionless embrace 

Of that dark marriage bed : 

I would be autumn earth, and hold 

Your beautiful body, dead. 



95 



Sequence 



I. ARRIVAL 



96 



Shining highways 

Sing to your step, 

Windows beckon, 

Doorways open a square embrace. 

Doors laugh gently , 

Swinging together 
Behind you. 



II. THE TOWER 

There's a flag on my tower. 

And my windows 

Are orange to the night. 

They are set in grey stone that frowns 

At the black wind. 

Inside, there's a guest at my hearth, 

And a fire 

Painting the grey stone gold. 

My windows are black 

With the hungry night peering through them. 



Blackness lurks in corners, 
Wind snatches the sparks, 
Tongs and poker jangle together 
Like the iron bones 
Of a man that was hanged. 



III. THEY WHO DANCE 

The feet of dancers 

Shine with mirth, 

Their hearts are vibrant as bells : 

The air flows by them 
Divided like water 
Cut by a gleaming ship. 

Triumphantly their bodies sing. 
Their eyes are blind 
With music. 

They move through threatening ghosts 
Feeling them cool as mist 
On their brows. 

They who dance 

Find infinite golden floors 

Beneath their feet. 



97 



98 



IV. PIANISSIMO 

I took Night 

Into my arms, 

Night lay upon my breast. 

If night had wings 

She would have brought me 

Stars for my hair. 

The stars laughed 

Lightly 

From far away. 

About my shoulders 
White mist curled. 



V. PORTRAIT BY ZULOAGA 

Death lies in wait 

For those who do not know 

What they desire, 

And Hell for those 

Who fear what they have taken. 

These hands are wrinkled 

From stretching forth, 

Brown 

From the winds blowing upon them. 

They are strong with seizing. 
They do not tremble. 



VI. GESTURES 

Let there be dancing figures 
On our wine-flask, 
Swastikas on our rug, . 
Inscriptions in our rings 
And on our dwelling. 

Let us build ritual 

For our worship. 

Pledge our love 

With vows and holy promises. 

If oaths are broken, 

Let it be darkly 

With threatening gestures. 

Thus we ignore 
That we love and die 
Like insects. 



VII. VEILS 

I shall punish your blindness 
With a veil. 

I shall choose words that join 
Gaily word to word, 
I shall weave them flauntingly 
Into veil upon veil, 



99 



I shall wind them defiantly 
Over my lips, over my eyes. 

You shall not see your name 
On my lips, 

You shall not see your image 
In my eyes! 

And through my veils I shall not see 
That you are blind. 



VIII. FREEDOM 

I would be free 

From two old superstitions. 

Thanks and Forgiveness. 

So I would think of you 
As Flame, 
As Wind, 
As Night, 

To whom I have been 
Wind, 
And Flame 
And Night, 

Together burned and swept, 

Now smothered 

In separate darkness. 



lOO 



IX. MUD 

I am dazed and weary 
From the shapelessness 
Of what I am — 

I am poured 

Among haphazard stones 

In meaningless patterns. 

Yesterday's sun dried me 
Between rounded cobbles, 
Today's deluge sweeps me 
Toward alien pavements, 
Tomorrow's sun shall dry me 
In a new design. 

Better the turbid gutter 
Toward the open sea ! 



X. FOOLS SAY 

November's breath 

Is black in the branches of trees 

And under the bushes, 

Harsh rain 

Whips down the rustling dance 

Of leaves. 

lOI 



There is smoke 

In the throat of the wind, 

Its teeth 

Bite away beauty. 

Let fools say: 

" Spring 

Will come again 1 " 



102 



Disillusion 

I touch joy and It crumbles under my fingers — 
The dust from it rises and fills the world, 
It blinds my eyes — I cannot see the sun. 
A choking fog of dust shuts me apart. 

I remember the sparkling wind on a bright autumn 

morning, 
I let down my hair and danced in the golden gale. 
Then chased the wind as the wind chased fallen 

leaves — 
Wind cannot be caught and tamed like a bird. 

I touch joy and it crumbles to dust in my fingers. 



103 



November Afternoon 

Upon our heads 

The oak leaves fall 

Like silent benedictions 

Closing Autumn's gorgeous ritual, 

And we, upborne by worship, 

Lift our eyes to the altar of distant hills. 

Beloved 

How can I know 

What gods are yours, 

How can I guess the visions of your spirit. 

Or hear 

The silent prayers your heart has said ? 

Only by this I feel 

Your gods akin to mine. 

That when our lips have met 

On this last golden Autumn afternoon 

They have confessed in silence 

Our kisses were less precious than our dreams. 

Today, our passion drowned in beauty. 
We turn away our faces toward the hills 
Where purple haze, old incense. 
Spreads its veil. 
104 



I 



Yareth at Solomon's Tomb 

At last 
Your search is at an end, 
King Solomon, 

You, restless dreamer, 
For whom each face held promise 
Unfulfilled, 

Whose hungry arms held many women, 
(Though none could fill your need) 
Who seized, but never loved, 
This is your sepulchre . . . 

I who till today 
Questioned my heart 
Now find it buried with you 
In this tomb ; 

So now I can forgive you 
That you never believed 
My love! 



105 



Argolis 

Like sun on grasses 

Warming to life 

Quaint beetles, curious weeds, 

Till earth awakens, pregnant beneath its rays 

So came the shepherds down to Argolis. 

As nameless trees 

Cast cloud-grey shadows there 

On moon-pale, tarnished snow. 

Till snow and shadow are lost, 

Ahke confused and forgotten 

Among the withered reeds — 

So lies their memory across its heart. 



io6 



St. Faith's Eve 

We stood together on a balcony 
An hour when the night 
Died into blankness, 
And light mist 

Curling beneath us, hid the earth, 
And the cold, unburied stars 
Drew further into space . . . 

I turned to meet your eyes 
And saw 

Like a light, rosy veil 
Your flesh sink gently down 
Leaving only the simple skeleton 
And a white voice which said: 
" This still is I, 
Do you love me 
Now?" 

Quietly, and without sadness 
I looked upon you, 
For comfort blindly reached my soul 
And primitive beauty. 
Without passion, without fervour, 
I spoke at last: 
107 



" Somehow Faith 

Shines from your empty eye-holes, 

And Truth 

Speaks mutely from your fleshless jaws. 

I choose your slceleton to lie with 

In the peaceful bed of earth 

Through all the dreamless, mornless, utter night ! " 



io8 



Poems of Elijah Hay 



The Golden Stag 

hungry hearted ones, sharp-limbed, keen-eyed, 

Let me have place ! 

1 too would ride 

On your fantastic chase. 

Your hunger is a silver hunting horn, 

I heard it sweep 
The frozen, peaceful morn : 

Its note bit me from sleep. 

I will ride with you, hunters, even I, 

Toward a far hill 
To see the golden stag against the sky 

Uncaptured still. 



Ill 



To Anne Knish 

Madam, you intrigue me ! 

I have come this far 

Cautiously sneezing 

Along the dusty highroad of convention, 

But now it leads no farther toward you. 

Today 

I have reached the cross roads — 
A weather-beaten sign-board 
Blazons undecipherable wisdom 
Of which the arrow-heads, even, 
Have been effaced. 

Eastward, it leads through cultivated fields 

Of intellectual fodder. 

Where well-fed cattle, herding together, 

Browse content : 

Are you of these? 

Westward, is a lane, hedge-bordered. 
Shady, and of gentle indirection. 
In May, a bower of sentimental bloom, 
But this November weather 

112 



Betrays its destiny, the poultry yard 
Where geese foregather. 

And there ahead, the ancient, swampy way 
Modernized by a feeble plank or two : 
But the morass of passion lures me not ! 
I see a vision of two plunging feet. 
Discreetly shod, yet struggling in vain — 
Slime 

Creeps ankle-high, knee-high, thigh-high. 
Till all is swallowed save a brave silk hat 
Floating alone, a symbol of the creed 
I perished shedding. ' 

Yet somewhere you 

Intelligent of my distress 

Smile, undisturbed — 

I have no pedlar's license to submit, 

No wares to cry, nor any gift to bring — 

I do not know 

Anything new — 

In truth, then, what have I to do with you ? 

Yet, madam, you intrigue me! 



113 



Lolita 

How curious to find in you, Lolita, 

The geisha 

Who sits and strums In the immortal 

Attitude of submission. 

There is a ledger in place of her soul ! 

Your shoulders sang 

For admiration, 

Your hair wept for kisses, 

Your voice curved softly, a caress — 

You came among us as a suppliant. 

What had we you desired? 

Bringing to market stolen goods, 
Holding to view used charms, 
Behold a hawker's spirit! 

Eagles perch proudly 

In isolation, 

They swoop to seize a living prey — 

Crows hover to feed. 

Waiting with patience till the soul is fled 

Leaving a helpless body — carrion — 

(Vile thoughts obsess me!) 

What did you want, Lolita ? 
114 



Spectrum of Mrs. Q. 

Fear not, beautiful lady, 

That I shall ravish you ! 

Your arms are languorous lilies — 

There is not a thorn 

In all your slender greenness. 

And you are sweet to madden buzzing bees! 

Fear not, beautiful lady, 
A hard, black cricket 
Inspects you. 



115 



Epitaph 

Courage is a sword, 
Honour, but a shield 
Here lies a turtle. 



ii6 



A Sixpence 

OBVERSE 

If I loved you, 
You would rear 
Eight healthy children 
To our love, 
(Forgetting me) 
And be happy. 



REVERSE 

But I do not love you, 
So you will write 
Eight hundred poems 
To our love, 
(Forgetting me) 
And be happy ! 



117 



Three Spectra 

Of Mrs. X. 
You — 

Too well fed for rebellion, 
Too lazy for self-respect, too timid for murder, 
Disgracefully steal the trade-mark of the fairy-tale 
"And they lived together happily 
Ever after! " 

Of Mrs. Z. 
Madam, you are ever retreating. 
But are never 
Gone — 

Some day I shall pursue you 
Hoping to see you 
Vanish. 

Of Mrs. Andsoforth. 
Old ladies, bless their hearts, 
Are contented as house-flies 
Dozing against the wall. 
But you, 

Imprisoned in the forties, 
Delirious, frenzied, helpless. 
Are a fly, drowning in a cocktail ! 
ii8 



Two Commentaries 

I. TO AN ACTOR 

You are a gilded card-case 

Which I took for a purse. 

Your spirit's coin was squandered long ago, 

And In Its place 

Are white cards, all alike, 

Bearing a word, 

A name, 

Connoting nothing. 



2. PHILOSOPHER TO ARTIST 

You are a raisin, but I am a nut! 

What meat there Is to you 

Can be seen at a glance — 

(Seeds, when they exist, are bitter) 

My calm, round glossiness, 

(For I am sound and free 

From wormy restlessness of spirit) 

Defies your casual Inspection. 

It takes sharp teeth 
And some determination 
To taste my kernel ! 



119 



A Womanly Woman 

You sit, a snug, warm kitten 
Blinking through the window 
At a storm-haunted world — 

Sleet wind caterwauls 

Through icy trees, 

Which clack their hands at you 

Tauntingly. 

Why should you leave 

Radiator and rubber-plant? 

Do people stand at attention to mourn a hero 

When they behold 

A frozen kitten 

In a gutter? 



120 



Lolita Now Is Old 

Lolita now is old, 

She sits in the park, watching the young men pass 

And huddles her shawl against the cold. 

One night last summer when the moon was red, 

Lolita, hearing an old song sung 

And amorous laughter down the street 

Left her bed — 

Lolita thought she was young. 

With ancient finery on her back, 

A lace mantilla hiding her grey head, 

She crept into the warm and alien night. 

Her trembling knees remembered the languid pace 

Of beauty on adventure bent — her fan 

Waved challenges with unforgotten grace. 

Cunningly she played her part 

For to her peering age 

Love was a well-remembered art. 

Footsteps followed her — footsteps drew near! 

She dropped a rose hush, he is here! 

There came hard arms and a panting kiss — 

121 



He felt the fraud of those withered lips, 
He cursed and spat — " Was it for this, 
You came, old woman, to the park? " 
Lolita gathered skirts and fled 
Through the dim dark. 

Lolita huddles her shawl against the cold. 
She sits and mumbles by the fire. In truth 
Lolita knows she is old. 



122 



The Shining Bird 

A bird is three things: 

Feathers, flight and song, 

And feathers are the least of these. 

At last I hold her In my hands 

The shining bird whose flight along 

The perilous rim of trees 

Has made my days adventurous, my spirit strong. 

And now her wings 

Are still - — her vivid song 

But ceaseless twitterings. 

Her words are feathers, falling 
Lightly, relentlessly, and without rest, 
Revealing to my face 
Her pinched and starveling breast 
Like poultry, dead and unashamed 
And naked in the market place. 

A shattered flash of wings, 

A broken song. 

Echo and shine along the rim of trees. 



123 



The King Sends Three Cats to Guinevere 

Queen Guinevere, 

Three sleek and silent cats 

Bring you gifts from me. 

The first is a grey one, 

(I wanted a white one, 

I could not find one snowy white enough, 

Queen Guinevere,) 

He brings you purple grapes. 

The second is a grey one, 

(I wanted a sleek one, 

Where could I find one sleek enough. 

Queen Guinevere?) 

He brings you a red apple. 

The third one, too, is grey. 

(I wanted a black one. 

Not Hate itself could find one black enough. 

Queen Guinevere,) 

He brings you poison toadstools. 

I send you three grey cats with gifts — 
(For uniformity of metaphor. 



124 



Since Bacchus, Satan, and the Hangman 

Are not contemporaneous in my mythology) 

I send you three grey cats with gifts, 

Queen Guinevere, 

To warn you, sleekly, silently 

To pay the forfeit. 



125 



Ode in the New Mode 

Your face 

Was a temple 

From which your soul 

Came to me beneath arched brows: 

And my soul knelt at your feet. 

Then 

Inadvertently 

I saw your leg 

Curved and turned like a bird-song, 

Dying into esctatic silence at the garter . . . 

Wretched 

Women ! 

When you are wholly lovely 

Man cannot forget either of his two afflictions, 

Soul, or body! 



126 



Night 

I opened the door 
And night stared at me like a fool, 
Heavy dull night, clouded and safe — 
I turned again toward the uncertainties 
Of life withindoors. 

Once night was a lion. 
No, years ago, night was a python 
Weaving designs against space 
With undulations of his being — 
Night was a siren once. 

O sodden, middle-aged night 1 



THE END 



Acknowledgments are due to Poetry, a Magazine 
of P'erse, Others, Reedy's Mirror, Contemporary 
Verse, The Midland, The Little Review, The Lyric, 
The Masses, etc., by whose courtesy certain of these 
poems have been reprinted. 










^^. .^^ '' 



r^%^ \^P/ j>^\ 'Ww/^^' 






r^^ -. 












1>^ "% • 





'^0^ 







'oK 








; ^^0^ 



Ao^ Vi 















f o 



"^bv^ 




•^0^ 
.^^ 














WERT 

BOOKBINDING 

Crjrilville Pj 
Sepi— Oc- 1S8'- 




